


The Liturgy of the Word (and World) according to A.J Crowley

by Jonaira



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient History, Angels, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Big Gay Love Story, Diary/Journal, Epistolary, Fallen Angels, Falling In Love, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Meddling Humanity, Mild existensial angst, Miraculous History, Oblivious, Philosophy, Pining, Prophecy, Regret, Rescue Missions, Reveal, Road Trips, Thots and Prayers, Very Secret Diary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 01:45:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19819981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jonaira/pseuds/Jonaira
Summary: A demon, a part-time witch and The ex-Antichrist (the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness) walk into a bar.Well, they do at some point on their road trip to save Crowley's private diary getting read by the world at large, and scarier still, by his best friend.





	1. The First Reading

_There are Love Stories,_

_and then there are_

_Stories about love._

" _This is, what many eminent scholars of Hebrew and theology are calling the biggest archeological discovery of the 21st century, ever since the discovery of the first of the dead Sea scrolls in 1946. Especially since a large number of the scrolls were rendered unreadable in the years following their discovery because of rapid deterioration due to poor handling and atmospheric control, this set of nearly perfectly preserved writings holds much promise for powerful new additions to current Jewish and Christian theological canon."_

The newscaster sounded just a tad more excited than most people would upon discovering mold in their attic.

His television, like most of his possessions, had a mind of its own and had turned itself to a local news broadcast which had only moments prior been covering the escapades of an escaped mascot horse at a local weekly farmer's market. It possibly liked animals, Crowley could never tell. And he didn't quite have the heart to yell at it for its critter loving ways when it would be rather hypocritical of him to do so, given that he himself fed ducks on a fairly regular basis for no other reason than that they quacked at him.

However, something was _off_. Off, in the familiar way that your bacon smells great in the pan and then continues to smell great for just a tad too long before it turns acrid and you realize it's burning.

The girl on screen chirped against the backdrop of Crowley's mounting sense of unease,

_"With us here today to further discuss what these writings may possibly contain, is Mr. A.Z. Fell, a long time dealer of rare texts. Mr Fell, what do you think of these texts? How legitimate are they and will you be on the team of consultants to decrypt these works, given that on preliminary examination they do not appear to be in any earthly script?"_

And then to Crowley's utter horror, Aziraphale's smiling face popped up on most of the 60 inches of the television screen, and he gave a little wave, grinning toothily all the while as the presenter politely pulled him back to a more reasonable distance from the camera. It was adorable and completely revolting.

" _This is my first time on television ever ! Terribly exciting, I must say. Almost ah, as exciting as arguing with the flat earth-er's that these are not, infact, proof left behind by alien overlords about the planar nature of our planet, or that these were left by extraterrestrials at all, unless of course, one were to consider Angel's as extraterrestrials in the strict sense of the word, given that the script bears in certain places similarities to the purportedly angelic script of Enochian. Of course this is all rumours within the academic and antiquities circles right now given that none of us have really gotten a good eyeballing at those texts, all very hush hush so far, I'd be thrilled to consult of course..."_ He said this all without a pause for breath, and with significant hand wringing at parts.

The poor girl had gone slightly cross eyed while nodding along to Aziraphale's merry ramble, but Crowley's horror was mounting to the point that the leaves on his plants were way past shivering and well into shriveling by now.

Crowley glared at the television which clicked off to a terrified black screen. He was surprised in a distracted sort of way to find himself on his feet and the remote control twisted and gently smoking on the floor.

"Don't you dare get up to any funny business," he called to his plants over his shoulder. "I want to see you all a good inch taller when I get back, do you understand me you chlorophyll ridden critters ?"

He didn't wait for them to quiver back in cowering acquiescence before he'd summoned the keys to his Bentley and was out of the door. The newest addition to the bunch, a little monkshood promptly keeled over in relief as soon as the door slammed shut.

Which is why he didn't hear his answering machine go off later that morning with a message from a very excited Aziraphale.

" _Crowley ! I've just received the most wonderful news ! I'll be on the official team of consultants for decryption of the Eden Edicts. Well, technically, A.Z.Fell and Co. will be the suppliers of other rare manuscripts for reference, and believe it or not, all of this without me actually performing a minor miracle at all ! Will be flying to Armenia shortly to oversee the delivery and get an early start on all that reading, was wondering if you'd like to get a spot of lunch before I fly out today evening ?"_

***

_“The Eden Edicts, as they have been dubbed temporarily since they were discovered four days ago in the area of Armenia that has long since believed to possibly have been the original location of the Garden of Eden, filled an entire underground chamber about 66 feet across by 6 feet wide from floor to ceiling. They currently are in the process of being moved to the British Museum to be preserved and digitalized in a temperature controlled environment, even while linguistics experts from across the globe are making their way to London to try their hand at deciphering this new script. Stay tuned with us for more updates, over to you in the studio-"_

  
Crowley wrenched the radio knob to silent; the Bentley clicked reproachfully at him- it rarely deigned to play anything but the greatest hits of Queen and other Crowley certified classics, and if didn't appreciate the rough handling for doing Crowley's bidding in the first place and playing absolutely anything related to the discovery of the scripts.

The reason Crowley was driving like a madman down the M25 in the wee hours of morning on the fourth day after the discovery of the scripts, was because _on_ the day of the discovery, Crowley had been busy trying his amateur hand at hacking into Google just to see if he could, and in a stroke of demonic luck had unintentionally managed to jam the server's at the Google headquarters so that people across the globe experienced an internet blackout and were forced to use Bing and Yahoo, which was truly evil if anyone asked him. Not quite his intended purpose, but he took the opportunity to sow chaos when he could, if only because it was familiar routine.

Aziraphale had always had his books, but Crowley was still figuring out after his decade long emancipation of sorts, what exactly gave him purpose anymore after being released from 6000 years of a dead end job. He’d been trying his hand at finding a dedicated Hobby/Job, now that he had been off Hell’s unofficial roster for a while. It was honestly hit and miss most days.

And thus, the world at large never heard about a historically significant discovery at a remote dig site in Armenia on the first day of the archeologists contacting the press itself, and Crowley didn't get his security alert regarding a breaking into one of his safe houses across the civilized world. Of course, the wards on the small room under what was once a flourishing inn overlooking the Persian gulf in 100 BCE were _not_ dependent on the internet being functional, but the _alert_ regarding their breaking into was, because maintaining a time-location-action ward over millennia significantly drained any being of occult of hellish/heavenly energy and was simply not practical.

The thing is, it had been so many centuries since Crowley had thought about that dusty little nook in the ground, that he'd nearly forgotten about its existence, having long since moved onto the wonders of digitalizing all documents and free cloud storage. And because he'd chosen to mess up the servers on a Saturday night and the poor engineers at Google had spent all of _Sunday_ doing emergency overtime to get the net running by Sunday evening, it was only by the third day, a deary drizzly Monday which Crowley spent lazing in bed while the Google employees had to come _back_ into work on a Monday morning after no weekend, that Crowley decided to catch up on his messages and media.

In the last 10 years since the Notpocalpse, he'd been left, dare he say, miraculously alone by the idiots downstairs so the only voice messages or passive-aggressive emails he gets now are either from Aziraphale or Tracy (now Mrs. Shadwell) asking him around for dinner or to the latest opening of a new exhibit at the museum or for a play at the Globe. One of the kids, usually the girl, would occasionally drop him a line with a book suggestion for Aziraphale, since the angel never checked his own email (Crowley suspected this was more because Aziraphale had long since forgotten his password and couldn't be bothered to recover it). He took great pleasure in sending her back in reply the most infernally annoying meme of that month. Moth memes, were his doing in a moment of inspired genius after all.

He's the hellish equivalent of Missing in Action, he supposed, but Crowley still liked to spread chaos from time to time even if everyone downstairs was much happier without him checking in, which was why Google server sabotage had to happen. Couldn't have any upstarts pointing talons at him and saying he'd gone soft, of worse, that _he'd lost his touch._

And so, it was on the third day (more night really), that he rose, switched on his semi-sentient telly, checked his messages, and was seated at the right end of the sofa, when his cell pinged with the security alert literally from hell at the same time as the news started showing what was the third day of humanity poking their noses where they really shouldn't.

The accelerator creaked under his foot, exhaust smelling vaguely sulphuric. Crowley had a house call to make.


	2. The Second Reading

_Creation, all of it, as a whole is a story about love. The creations themselves- the angels, and the angels who would fall to become demons, and the kingdoms animalia and plantae and everything in between, these are the Love Stories._

_***_

" _Even as this broadcast goes out, sections of the Eden Edicts are reaching Heathrow and are en route to the British Museum. Upon preliminary examination, they appear to have been written on a vastly differing set of materials, ranging from 14th century chinese rice paper, to 3000 BC Egyptian papyrus, to Mesopotamian Clay tablets, to lambskin vellum, to what even appears to be sheets of beaten gold, amongst other metals. Experts are baffled as to the origins of the workmanship of the some of these sheets, the degree of thinness that allowed the writing to be embossed in apparently rather than merely inscribed on top._

_Infact, upon preliminary dating of some of the inscriptions, they appear to have been created around 6000 BC. The currently known oldest written language has been dated to 4500 BC. But even more incredible, they appear to have been written by the same person, or atleast a group of people with an identical style. Most of the writings appear to be in ancient local but known scripts, and yet there are many languages here that have never been discovered recorded in written form before.Radiocarbon dating has begun on the hardier materials that will be transported last to a temperature controlled environment. Much like when the Rosetta Stone was first discovered, the Edicts already promise to act as a treasure trove for decrypting and understanding these newly discovered ancient languages. The words 'miraculous' and 'possibly alien' are being tossed around in equal measure..."_

***

Mr.Young had been having a very strange morning. It has started out perfectly normal.

Lovely, even, because Adam was visiting from university and they'd had breakfast together before his son had popped over next door to Jasmine Cottage to visit the Pulsifers. Deirdre had been following the news about the Eden Edicts like a groupie followed a star, which is to say, she now knew nearly everything that had been reported and had involved him and Adam on her theorising about them. Mr. Young had stayed quiet mostly, letting his linguistics major son do most of the contributing. Adam had set down his toast and steepled his buttery fingers. "One of my professors had to emergency fly out to Armenia. It's not yet made the news mum, but turns out some of the stuff they've decrypted is really not what they were expecting."

Deirdre Young had practically quivered with excitement.

"Nothing scandalous," Adam chuckled, "Just- and I'm not supposed to tell you any of the stuff he told me- the first thing they decrypted, off the _gold_ sheet mind you, was not infact any holy edict or Ten Commandments version 2.0. It appears to be a shopping list, if anything. There's a lot of strange stuff they aren't reporting because it's so mind bogglingly mundane, that the entire theory of it being worthy of being added to canon is hanging on by a thread. It's actually the reason why so many linguistics experts are being flown in, because the first bunch of the most eminent were baffled- a few quit and most of the others were _fired_ sort of, because the stuff they interpreted written on precious metal was surely supposed to be grander than some fellow eating a nice meal with another chap and obsessing over what to wear for their lunch appointment with him in the next lunar month. It's a mess honestly, but you won't ever hear about that on mainstream media," Adam wrinkled his nose.

  
Mr Young privately couldn't care less- he'd always believed the fanfare associated with the church was overrated, but to each their own.

  
Now however, he resisted the urge to close the door on the face of the sharply dressed man standing on his porch in front of the big Bentley that had possibly run over the edge of Deirdre's china rose garden. It was now parked in their driveway, menacing and somehow lordly in equal measure. And now he was anthropomorphising a car. The man, who identified himself as A.J Crowley was unsubtly peering around him and into the house looking for Adam.

  
"If you don't mind me asking, Mr Crowley, er, _who_ , exactly, are you ?"

  
Crowley's unnerving attention shifted back to him with an uncomfortable cold feeling, rather like he'd just told the Queen her shoes were terribly last season.

  
Crowley's jaw worked for a second before he smoothly said, "I'm Adam's guidance counselor."

  
"Oh! I've never seen you before," Mr. Young said slowly.

  
"I'm not a very good one," Crowley nodded.

  
"Well I've never know a guidance counsellor to make a house call before."

  
"I take my job very ssseriously." the man practically hissed. His sunglasses flashed like a glint of flame.

  
"Mr. Crowley, my boy's not in any kind of trouble is he ? He'd always been a spirited lad, he and those three friends of his. Caught up in all sorts of adventures every summer, they were, but he's a good boy, he'd never do anything to cause a disruption on purpose-"

  
"I can assure you sir, your son is not in any kind of trouble. It's just a routine visit to see how he's doing in school-"

  
"My boy's in university, final year actually-"

  
"Yes, we've followed his progress very closely, now if you could summon, er, _call_ him I'd be much obliged."

  
His tone brooked no argument, and Mr Young could swear the air around him was shimmering ever so slightly, like a heat haze.

  
"Erm, my son is actually over next door, visiting the neighbours-"

  
"Perfect! I'll go say hello to them too," Crowley announced and staked off through the garden. My Young would swear the grass seemed to lean away from him.

  
  
***   
  
The door flew open before Crowley could rap on it with his knuckles.   
"You're a bit late," Anathema called distractedly over her shoulder as she swirled back into the house, skirt flapping in her wake.

“Nice to see you too,” Crowley muttered before stepping into the cottage, careful to edge around the old iron horseshoe above the entrance.

  
The house, a _home_ now Crowley supposed, given the mess of a child's toys and other toddler supplies scattered over the living room, was quaint and radiated a sense of belonging. It felt a lot like the book shop. Aziraphale would be perfectly at home here, he mused.

  
All this coziness was giving him reflux.

  
"Late for what ? I hear you're harbouring the Antichrist."

  
"You know I don't go by that anymore Mr. Crowley," Adam said mildly as he walked into the room hand in hand with a little girl.

  
Who was wearing a pair of reading glasses on her curly head and announced in a clear high voice, "He answers to New Age Hipster though."

  
"Newton! Found your spectacles!" Anathema bellowed, and thus summoned her husband from the depths of the cottage. Newton tripped over something in the doorway that squeaked plaintively and righted himself to scoop his daughter up. He was wearing a child size backpack over one shoulder and wiped at the little girl's mouth with a napkin.

  
"We're going to be late for school," he rubbed her cheek with his stubble, making her squeal.   
He took Anathema's hand and squeezed. "We'll miss you," he smiled at her. "Don't worry about anything here, Janey will take care of me, and keep the house running and do her homework and finish that Bach piece, won't you sweetheart?"

  
The little girl nodded in all seriousness. "You need me," she patted his cheek.   
Crowley privately thought the child could shine with a little guidance...

  
Anathema sniffled a bit. "Then I'm not worried at all," she kissed her daughter.

Adam caught Crowley's eye and jerked his head to indicate moving away to give the family privacy. Crowley couldn't help overhearing Newton worriedly saying to Anathema even as he huddled in a corner with The Adversary, “I know we’ve been over this a million times, but you’re completely sure that that’s what Agnes meant right ?"

Anathema's reply was quieter still, and Crowley _did_ try to not listen. It made his skin itch, being this considerate, and it was all that blessed angel's fault. 

Crowley cast a glance around the living room again and saw what he hadn’t at first- a packed valise and a large hiking bag standing unobtrusively in a corner. Things started falling into place alarmingly quickly then. The soft conversation between Anathema and Newton dropped into the background.

“Kid, your dark princeliness, blah blah etcetera, I only need you to do me a small favour, the witch needn’t be travelling and leaving the little one alone.”

Adam side eyed him. “Well, if you’d been _on_ time, you’d have caught Anathema’s explanation for why she needs to come with us-“

“Okay number one, how am I even late to something that I've shown up unannounced to ? Number two, she's coming with us ?! There will be no coming or going, I just need you to snap your dastardly fingers and vanish the whole blessed collection of my journals out of existence!”

Adam gave him a funny look. “Before I go into the reason why I cannot simply snap things out of existence, what you’re asking for is a miracle. The kind angels do. The kind Mr. _Aziraphale_ does.”

Crowley felt the molecules in the blood cells of his human vessel try to rush to his cheeks. He gritted his teeth and reminded them why they were still under his employment even 6000 years later.

“ _And ?_ ”

“And if it’s a miracle you need, a pretty big one at that going by exactly how extensive your collection appears to be, why wasn’t _he_ the first being you asked ? Why come over all the way to Tadfield ? And doesn’t it strike you as strange that I’d happen to be visiting just when you needed me?” Adam raised an eyebrow, crossed his arms and set his jaw.

Crowley wasn’t used to being questioned, and especially not used to being asked, more importantly, the _right_ kind of questions. It didn’t agree with his constitution.

“It’s because all those pages and pages of writing mention Aziraphale in some form or the other,” Anathema said briskly as she laced on a sturdy pair of boots. “And if Agnes is right, which she always is,

_The worlde shalle readeth the demone’s diary_

_And sayeth they will Awwe,_

_For he inks his love of the pansy of the south_

_And three shalle retun to Eden_

_Befoure time runnetht out._

“There’s more, like how he couldn’t just man up, or demon up, I’m not quite sure what the occultly correct term is for this one is- and just tell Aziraphale how he feels about him, instead choosing to practically write A plus C equals Heart all over his diary.

Not to mention, Aziraphale isn’t actually at the book shop, since he’s at Heathrow waiting for his flight to Yerevan. But we’re already late as it is and I’ll fill you in along the way. Now, I’ve called us an Uber, it’s about five minutes out-“

“No.” Crowley had just about had enough.

“I mean we _could_ take the bus but the Uber is just so much more conveni-”

“No not the damned Uber! Why is the angel at the airport? The last prophecy from Agnes’ book came to pass ten years ago. I know because it was about him and me. How can there be a new prophecy ? ”

Anathema’s cheeks turned lightly duskier with her blush ”I told you, I’ll explain on the way,” she muttered, fingers tightening on the straps of her bag.

“You’re coming nowhere with me and Adam until you explain. What is Aziraphale doing going to Armenia ?”

“And I’m going nowhere with you if she isn’t coming with us.” Adam’s voice had taken on a strange, compelling sort of tone. Like the scrape of a knife on its whetstone. Adam hefted the hiking bag onto his shoulders and took her luggage from her before gazing placidly at Crowley.

The acrid scent of his sunglasses burning tickled Crowley’s nose.

“Fine. All of you, into the car. Eden it is.” The Bentley threw open its doors.

Adam and Anathema exchanged a glance and then looked back at Crowley, mouths half open about to contradict his flawless logic.

“I'm not leaving my car.”

"Well what do you want to do Crowley, _drive_ to Armenia !?" Anathema massaged her temples.

“Well how did _you_ plan to get there? When I wrote the by laws for that taxi start-up international travel was never included.”

“Like normal people do ! Take a flight obviously.” She waved three tickets at him.

“Mmm, not happening my lady, air travel is too close to upstairs. It’s even a bit rude on my part to go that close to the old HQ. Not to mention, airplane food and I don’t mix.”

"Driving would take about 2 days and 10 hours," Adam frowned down at his phone, poking at the screen with one stiff finger. "We'd take the Eurotunnel Shuttle, come out near Calais, blow through France, bar hop in Germany and be in Armenia by show time. Although that _is_ two days of non-stop driving and we don't have money or fake passports because I'd really like to keep my mum out of this were she to get called and informed that her only son is living it up in an Armenian gaol for breaking into a private archeological dig site."

He pocketed his phone, clapped once and grinned up at them."Sounds like a blast. Let's do it."

“You heard the antichrist. Who, is by the way, in charge of making sure Aziraphale does not reach the dig site before us at any cost,” He smiled his nastiest smile at the two of them. Anathema drew herself up, took her luggage bag back from Adam and whacked Crowley in the chest with it as she handed it to him. He caught it with a grunt. “You can put that in the boot,” her eyes glinted.

“Shotgun!” called Adam cheerfully, and then defeatedly clambered into the back at the look Anathema shot him. He let out a piercing whistle, and a few seconds later the patter of feet through the bushes turned into the hellhound that jumped through the hedges and into his master’s lap. Crowley winced internally for the fate of his seats after they got done saving his world this time around, rather than The World.

“Adam, I trust that your parents know you’ll be gone for a while ?” Anathema looked meaningfully at him.

He nodded vigrously. “All taken care of. This trip will serve as my senior thesis photojournalism project.”

Crowley climbed into the driver’s seat. “You can start with explaining why is my angel currently heading into a politically fraught area, dressed the way he does, and why is it that you know about this instead of me.”

“That’s because when you tore off to Tadfield, you didn’t get his message, and when you never called back to confirm lunch, he got worried about you and rang up Tracy to ask if you’d been over or heard from you at all, who told Mr. Shadwell, who called Newton who told me. As for the way he dresses, don’t even try to front buddy, you’re crazy about him all the way from his tartan bowtie to oxford clad toes.”

Crowley opened his mouth, and then snapped it shut. “That still doesn’t answer why he’s going there in the first place.” He turned around in his seat to glare meaningfully at Adam. “Now would be a good time to work on getting him off that flight.”

“And I thought you kept up with the news. He’s been called on as a supplier of rare manuscripts for the translation efforts currently going on onsite. As the official representative of the bookshop, he needs to be there.” Anathema looked at him unimpressed even as

Adam smiled lazily and snapped his fingers. "I do believe a bunch of passengers flying to Yerevan just came to know that their current fight had been delayed by 12 hours and have hence been accommodated on different flights, all business class seats. Except for one Mr. A.Z.Fell, for whom they just _couldn't_ find an open seat so he's been checked into the Four Seasons while he waits for the next flight out of London."

  
  


Crowley took both hands off the wheel to turn around and stare at Adam. Anathema squeaked and clutched at the wheel, holding it steady. The Bentley purred.

  
  


"Well why can't you just will all my stuff out of being as well ?!" Crowley demanded incredulously. 

  
  


Adam leaned forward. "That's exactly what I was getting to ! I can't perform _miracles_ , Crowley. That's you guy's thing. I can only make things happen which I believe in. Flight delayed and all passengers but one incredibly adjusted on a different flight ? Unlikely, but sure I can believe that, and so I can make it _happen_. Your journals on the other hand, I know for a fact that they exist beyond all doubt. I just can't believe that they'd vanish into thin air, all of a sudden, and that nobody would ask questions. This used to be a lot easier when I was younger, and I could simply _believe_ in things. Now, the scope of what I can do is limited." He dragged a hand through his hair, while the dog whined beside him and licked his face.

Crowley slowly turned back and took the wheel from Anathema.

“Well then can you believe that Aziraphale would never read them ? That they’d be, oh I don’t know, complete untranslatable gibberish or get lost on the way to the British Museum ?”

Anathema met Adam’s eyes in the rear view mirror. “That might actually work,” she told him gently. Clearly, the _stiffening_ of his powers were something they’d spoken about before.

Adam leaned back in contemplation, fingers interlaced in his lap, as if praying. What an ironic image, thought Crowley.

“That they get lost on their way to the museum. That’s…hmm, that’s a possibility, definitely. No accidents, no jobs lost, just, they’re there one moment, and the next a loose joint in the trolley they’re loaded on gives way, and at the same time, the door to the truck opens, and the trolley rolls right out the door and off the road and down the hill.

“They say it’s still rolling out there somewhere,” Crowley nodded gravely.

A slight shudder passed through Adam.”Well that’s only a few of the manuscripts taken care of, the most delicate stuff that needed immediate temperature and moisture regulation. The metal plates and vellum and the hardier materials are still at the dig site.”

“That wasn’t mentioned on the radio,” Crowley narrowed his eyes.

“Yeah that’s actually part of the problem. I’ve got a professor at the dig site. We’ve been talking and now as a result there’s no way I can believe that your work is either untranslatable or gibberish, given that he’s on the linguistics team that made the first translation that they broadcast publicly.”

“What. Public. Broadcast.” Crowley ground out. He’d had his ears peeled and practically bleeding listening for every possible scrap of information since earlier this morning. The only time he’d actually moved more than three feet away from a radio was about half an hour ago when he’d gone to the Young’s house…

Crowley could feel the rumble build in his chest like a mushroom cloud exploding upwards. He was already reaching for the radio knob, but Anathema had beat him to it.

“It’s nothing terrible really, they’ve been airing it every little while for the past thirty minutes.” She said kindly over the squawk of the radio, hand half stretched out as if considering whether to pat his shoulder and then appearing to think better of it and going back to wringing her fingers in her lap.

_‘…is the first breakthrough_ (“Not true,” muttered Adam from the back) _in the translation of the Eden Edicts, which is as follows-_

_Today I invented woolen leggings. Or would those be footlings ?_

_Note to self- find a better name for them. Something silly, like 'socks' maybe. Keeps the feet warm, reduces frostbite and toes that fall off. And they're fuzzy like a baby lamb's coat. They're downright delightful._

_This is a problem._

_Might dismiss this as a failed experiment._

_Update: Wet socks are the worst. Success._

There was a beat of silence in the car.

"Socks." said Adam.

“Those were a bad few years,” Crowley sighed. “Was scraping the bottom of the creative barrel really,” He turned the volume down while the narrator continued to speculate about how the writer appeared to be a chaotic bad inventor of sorts.

The witch was right. It really wasn’t the _worst_ they could have translated. But, Crowley also no longer remembered the languages he’d written the most of the stuff in. Sure, the _most_ sensitive writings were in Logaeth, and Aziraphale was the only one who could actually read those. Aziraphale, who would be cooped up in his hotel room at the Four Seasons going absolutely bonkers that he couldn’t be onsite and delving into books and books worth of rare, one-of-a-kind manuscipts.

As if reading Crowley’s mind Adam sat up straighter. "The other thing I can’t do is ensure that Mr. Aziraphale doesn’t read your work. He’s pretty darn excited to be a part of this project by the sound of things, and if need be, I don’t think he’d hesitate in miracling himself over to the dig site. I bet he’s surfing every channel right now on the look out for any bit of news. Well, too bad he can't do that anymore since I'm sure his room's TV seems to have a loose connection somewhere and just won't turn on. But that's just a bandaid on the issue, that Aziraphale will find a way to get himself to Armenia, even if he has to miracle himself there. He's sure of it,” Adam grimaced,"and unfortunately, so am I."

Crowley tapped the steering wheel absentmindedly to the beat of Another One Bites the Dust.

"We've been on a watchlist of sorts, you could say. It's like a cosmic game of keep away that we play with the headquarters. The angel and I don't do anything that would draw too much attention from our head offices after we pulled off what I like to call Operation Switch-blade and the angel, most unfortunately refers to as," he took a deep, somewhat pained breath,"Operation Rubber Duck."

Anathema raised an eyebrow. "And this is relevant because...?"

"Transcontinental material discorporation and reconstitution is exactly the definition of attention grabbing. The divine ripples it would create are comparable to an elephant belly flopping into a kiddie pool. He cannot simply will himself to pop into re-existence at the dig site, and for that matter," he rued, "neither can I. Which is why you're here with me on the road trip from hell.

Adam thumped Crowley's bony back bracingly. "Aww you're not that bad company Mr. Crowley! It's going to be great! We'll save your secret diary and be back home by tea time !"

Crowley grit his teeth and reminded himself that the Original Gangster Serpent did not, infact, throw a Hissy Fit.

***

Aziraphale leaned forward to thump his head against Crowley's front door in defeat.

He'd been standing outside ringing the doorbell (which inexplicably sounded like the opening riff of Hell's Bell's - he hadn't known Crowley was an AC/DC aficionado, or maybe he was just imagining things) for the last five minutes. If Crowley had been home, he'd have answered by now. Of course, the _'if'_ factor could be eliminated by simply miracling himself one foot forward in space, into the flat, but that would be just _rude_ , if Crowley _were_ at home, and hadn't opened the door for whatever reason.

And then there was also the issue of laying off the decorporalisation-recorporalisation events, ever since The Swap.

He could have also miracled the locks open - Crowley's usually anti-angel wards weren't a problem for him- but then again, if Crowley was _not_ at home he wouldn't be able to reapply the disrupted wards. A decade ago, there had been an Incident, a few weeks after The Swap.

Crowley's address while not a secret from the higher-ups of both Heaven and Hell was still a little known piece of information, and that's the way Crowley liked to keep it. So they had been very surprised to return to Crowley's flat early one morning to find a pair of ashy looking shoes on the doorstep _inside_ the house. They also would have been been picking bits of white down feathers out of the cushions for days later (or atleast Crowley would have, _alone,)_ if not for what happened next.

Their best guess was that some angel had tried to pay Crowley an extremely unwelcome, _unsanctioned_ visit and had forced their way into the house.

If there was one decree that both Angelic as well as Demonic law agreed on it was that a being's home was a lot like a being's host- entry was by invitation only. If an entity tried to force themselves into what one deemed as their home space, the owner was allowed to take any measure necessary to prevent this. 

"Hellfire privileges, I have those," Crowley had said coolly. "Never ended up using it before now, however."

"I think _exploding_ the angel, wrong though he was for breaking and entering, was rather much though," Aziraphale had shifted twitchily from one foot to the other, extremely uncomfortable sitting down anywhere without atleast vaccuuming first. His mind had gotten stuck in an infinite and desperate loop of _angeldustangeldustangeldustangeldustangeldust!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

Crowley had sprawled out fully onto the sofa, riffling through one of his vintage car magazines completely oblivious to Aziraphale's extreme discomfort of sitting atop one of his once-brethren. 

So he only noticed Aziraphale's fidgety refusal to sit after a while.

"Aren't you going to sit down ?" 

"Doesn't it bother you !?" Aziraphale all but wailed.

"Doesn't _what_ bother me ? Angel you're not making a lick of sense."

"This!" Aziraphale swept a hand out to encompass the living room absolutely quivering with blown apart angel molecules. "The-the bits of the _heavenly host_ you're lounging upon !"

Crowley's eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses. "So which part of that is bothering you- the bits, the fact that they were one of yours, or my lounging upon said bits ?"

"I wouldn't call them one of mine."

"What ?"

"There is no yours or mine anymore remember? No your side or my side, just Our Side." Aziraphale said gently.

"Hmph." said Crowley. "You chose to focus on _that_ bit out of everything I said," He appeared to be trying very hard not to look pleased.

"Alright fine," Crowley sighed dramatically,"I guess I could do a small demonifying ritual of sorts."

He took of his sunglasses and then stood up very still. A minute passed, then two.

"Er, do you need me to leave ?" Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley seemed to be concentrating hard on the middle distance located somewhere outside the apartment.

"What ? No, just noticed they've started construction on a tower over there and it's ruining my view," he grumbled.

"The, er, ritual my dear...?" Aziraphale prompted gently. There was something distinctly unfriendly, menacing even about the angeldust coating the room. It made the back of his neck prickle.

"Yes, right." Crowley straightened the lapels of his suit. "You can stay here," he called as Aziraphale made to move towards the door and leave, gingerly side stepping the blackened shoes. "In fact, it would work even better if you did stay," he enthused, reaching to take Aziraphale by the elbow and steer him right into the center of the hall.

"Should I be alarmed ?" Aziraphale tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves. 

"Do you trust me ?" Crowley grinned.

"Is that a trick question ?"

Crowley smiled impossibly wider and pinched Aziraphale's cheek much to his indignation. "You're finally learning !" Of course, the very fact that Aziraphale hadn't fled the apartment at the first mention of _demonifying_ was answer enough, and he knew that Crowley knew that.

"All right,” Crowley was suddenly more serious than he'd been all this time. "I need you to keep very, _very_ still."

"Like a heron about to strike," Aziraphale said gravely.

"Stiller."

"Like a hot summer day."

"Hmm, stiller." He hadn't realized how close Crowley was standing to him. Aziraphale felt the flesh heart in his flimsy ribcage begin to double time.

"Just a bit more," Crowley rumbled.

"Like that moment before the first drop that flooded the land fell."

"Yesssss!" Crowley hissed jubilantly and for one shining, mad microsecond Aziraphale thought Crowley might kiss him- and then the Angel was on fire.

So was the world, apparently. Blinding flames streamed outwards from Crowley, washing over everything in the apartment, golden and blazing.

_Hellfire_ , thought Aziraphale weakly and wondered how he even still had the capacity to think, considering he should have been at most a sentient and very rueful pile of ash on the floor.

And yet, instead of obliterating his very essence, all the flames did were tickle lightly where they touched the bare skin of his face and hands, whispering though his hair and in the helix of his ears, brushing along his neck like a caress. It was terrifically bright, and the only part of him that hurt were his retinas as he watched the inferno form a pillar around Crowley like a robe.

And then it was over just as suddenly as it had started and Crowley was ambling his way back to melt into the sofa.

"What was that ?" Aziraphale gasped as he collapsed into the armchair. He felt extremely tingly all over and his knees bore the consistency of pudding. The feeling one got after soaking in a warm bath. The house was purified of all matter that wasn't originally part of Crowley, he knew that for a fact. _No more angelbits_ he thought in relief and then immediately felt guilty for being uncharitably happy they had removed the remaining traces of a once living being.

"I told you, this is _my_ hellfire. I can ask it not to harm you, and it won't." Crowley ambled over to the drinks cabinet. "You anchored it even, made it agree that the grass was indeed greener on the other side. Hmm, Château d'Yquem, Sauternes '64 or '71?”

"The '71 please. How do you mean, _greener on the other side ?_ "

Crowley leaned back against the counter, corkscrew dangling forgotten in his hand. "How do I explain this. It's just- it's a feeling. Like aspiring to something, to someone. A bit like domesticating a wolf, teaching it that if it doesn't hunt the soft squishy humans, it can hang around their camps and share their meals." 

Aziraphale could swear Crowley's hair gleamed a brighter red, like the fire had retired there to slumber until called forth again.

They made their way through half the bottle in altering bouts of companiable silence and brief murmuring conversation, both caught up in their own thoughts. 

Presently, Crowley closed his eyes as he leaned back on the sofa. "Don't you find it strange that hellfire leaves you feeling great but traces of your own species surrounding you makes you less than comfortable?" He looked at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye, face inscrutable.

Aziraphale shrugged. Yes, it was strange indeed. But then, angels were supposed to be good and not go around breaking into houses of beings minding their own business for certainly sinister purposes. Aziraphale supposed he'd find out which of the heavenly host had tried violate this most basic of laws. Angels were also not supposed to be clamouring for war and the destruction of God's favourite species. And demons were supposed to be evil minions with not a care for another or a kind word for the downtrodden.

He thought back to a cold day in the late 1800's London, when Crowley had given a poor young mudlark on the Thames with bleeding cuts on his soles Crowley's own pair of sturdy expensive leather boots. Aziraphale had always wondered what happened of the child.

A few years ago while digging to lay a new pipeline along the Thames, the excavators had found the remarkably well preserved skeleton of a powerfully built man, wearing a pair of fine leather boots, the workmanship of which had survived the hundreds of years under soil and water.

Aziraphale raised his glass. "To strange times," he toasted.

"To your baptism with fire," Crowley said wryly, raising his own glass.

The wine tasted sweeter after that.

In present day, Aziraphale still lingered on Crowley's doorstep, miserable. He could neither materialize inside nor could he trip Crowley's wards.

But worst of all, he'd forgotten his key to Crowley's flat.

He could picture it right now, sitting safely in the drawer of his desk in the bookshop. He'd been in such a haste to pack for his flight, and now there _was_ no flight, he hadn't even bothered to check into the Four Season's, and had come straight here because he was frantic that if he didn't get to Armenia as soon as possible, they'd just contact another literature antiquities expert and and and.

And he just wanted to see Crowley, even if just for a moment.

"Deal with it Aziraphale," he told himself firmly. Crowley had been gone a few days now, no doubt upto something much more interesting than having a drink with a gloomy angel. He couldn't blame him.

Aziraphale hefted his valise and walked away.

***

"Don't we need to stop and refuel ?" Adam had been typing furiously away on his phone ever since they'd hit Dover and had only put it away when they'd started on the Eurotunnel. Apparently, receiving network underground was an issue even for the Antichrist.

"No." Crowley's Bentley was no ordinary car. It refueled only when it felt like it, or when Crowley thought it deserved a special treat for quality services rendered. 

Anathema and Adam exchanged a look. This was becoming an increasingly common occurrence. "Well, a spot of lunch wouldn't be amiss," Adam suggested carefully. "Also, Dog needs to go." This was said a lot more firmly.

The Bentley clunked in alarm. Dog whined. "We trained you better than this," Crowley muttered at the hellhound (lapsed) and pulled over to the side of the road in the Calais countryside.

The radio had remained blessedly free of any new decryptions and had switched to a French station once they'd crossed the channel, only to change back to British stations when Crowley had clicked his tongue in annoyance at it.

Now as they waited for Dog to do his business, Adam pulled out his camera and twiddled a couple of knobs around. In the distance, across the channel the white cliffs of Dover rose up against the sky. 

A cool breeze blew, ruffling their hair and the quiet after the constant low purr of the Bentley's engine weighed down upon Crowley's ears. All around them fields rolled on either side of the road which twisted narrowly onwards.

Calais was old.

The earth itself of the place remembered war and peace and everything in between. Crowley could feel it even now, slow moving in its consciousness but aware even of most recent of upheavals in its long history, that of the immigrant crisis. He felt its distress at the state of its people, for the earth didn't recognize political borders. Nothing really was as old as Crowley and Aziraphale, and as such, not many things they saw regularly reminded them of their age, but in that moment, listening to the breath of Pas de Calais and watching the afternoon light touch the land and sea and sky all at once, Crowley felt every one of his six thousand years.

It was a heavy feeling to bear alone.

There would be times with Aziraphale when they would sit around and reminisce about that one crazy bard in Spain in the 16th century, or that time Crowley gave a patch of fungus such a fright that its spores drifted off and went and contaminated Alexander Fleming's petri dish.

Aziraphale didn't make him feel young - he made him feel steady, less like a cork bobbing in the sea of time and more like part of the sea itself.

"Yeah I wish Newton and my baby girl were here with me too." Anathema said quietly beside him, looking back towards England as they leaned against the boot of the car.

At Crowley's questioning look, she continued, "It's beautiful," she gestured to the fields around them, "but this land _yearns_. I don't know for what, but it seems to make one ache for their own as well."

Ever since most of them had either been burned or had gone underground, Crowley had forgot how tightly the power of witches was bound to the earth. They weren't the closest, but Crowley did respect her for how good a witch she was.

"So of course you're wishing for Aziraphale as well." She concluded, and just like that, the momentary goodwill he'd built up in her favor evaporated.

But she wasn't wrong either, so Crowley merely grunted in response. And because nobody pulled one over him and got away with it, Crowley pushed his sunglasses further up his nose and asked archly, "So, the new prophecy ?"

Anathema sort of deflated beside him and Crowley did his best not to feel bad for her.

His best wasn't enough. "Listen," he began uncomfortably, "truth is I just needed the Antichrist to vanish my stuff, but since he's made it clear that can't happen, the extra help isn't unappreciated." Crowley cleared his throat. And because he had a reputation to maintain, "Whatever dastardly deed you did concerning the prophecy, just remember, I'm ten times more devious than you."

"It isn't even dastardly," she sighed, looking slightly happier though. "There was a second book. After the end of the world, there was a second book of prophecies for the new world. I burned that book. All my life I'd always been a descendant, playing catch up with Agnes, and I loved her, I truly did. It was like having a fairy godmother almost," she laughed a little sadly.

"And I burned that book. It was supposed to be a clean break, little Anathema growing up for good, figuring out my own life and making my own mistakes with no road map to guide me. But then Jane got sick. It was-" she took a shuddering breath. "It was pretty touch and go for a while and all my ideas about going it solo and not just being a descendant went right out the window. I wished and wished and wished that I still had the book, because of course Agnes would have had some solution, something for me, for Jane.

But while I was losing my mind about Janey being sick, Newton was never once panicked. It was almost like he wasn't worried at all, like he knew she'd get better. And then she did."

Anathema closed her eyes and continued. "Because there _was_ another book. Ofcourse Agnes had seen me burn it, and she'd sent _him_ a second copy, with express instructions to keep it secret until the right time. So he followed her instructions to the letter, and I didn't know how to feel about that. He'd hid this from me for years, and then suddenly, there it was, ready to reassure us about our baby's life. I'd never felt so stupid before, because Agnes' prophecies were never just for the good of the one, but for the good of many, and I never understood that until now. It wasn't just _my_ personal road map, but the world's road map. And even though he was just doing what he was told, just like all the Device's before us, I was still kinda mad at him, and even more mad at myself for being so stupid."

"How did you two patch up?" Crowley asked inspite of himself. Aziraphale was a lot better at this sort of thing, he thought uncomfortably.

Anathema sighed. "Can't say we ever did patch up," she said wryly. "But I know what he did came from a good place, and, well," she shrugged, "it's done more good than bad. We're still a work in progress."

They were silent for a long while. Dog rolled delightedly in the grass and snapped at butterflies that flew past.

"It's why I have to come with you, you know," Anathema said quietly at last. "The first book of prophecies, my family had generations to study those. We were usually quite sure what they meant, or atleast could recognize the prophesied events as they were coming to pass. But the new book, I've only finished reading it for the fourth time now, and there are still a lot of the prophecies that I'm not sure are meant for even this century. I need to come and see that things go as per Agnes's vision or there will be hell, or worse, heaven to pay. I've realized that just being a descendant doesn't make you anywhere as good as the original. I'm sure she would have wanted to be there to actually see the things she 'saw' happen had she not been exploded at the stake."

Crowley was just about to open his mouth to ask about what explosion was this and where could he get his hands on some of these exploding stakes when the unmistakable sound of a camera shutter going off delivered Crowley from his predicament, only for him to try and tackle The Destroyer of Worlds off the roof of his Bentley. The terrified screaming was music to his ears.

***

Aziraphale was searching for the meaning of life in the bottom of his cup of tea.

He'd gone to the Four Seasons in defeated acceptance of the fact that wherever Crowley was, it wasn't London and there was no way he could reach him short of a miracle. Amongst other things there was no way to, reaching Yerevan and the dig site was second on his very short, very sad little list. His suitcase full of mostly extremely old books slumped besides him at the table for one in the tea room.

Aziraphale had just called for the bill when from somewhere behind him a shout rang out.

Somebody was calling him, but _not_ him. He hadn't been called that in years.

_I'm imagining things surely,_ he thought even as he turned around slowly in disbelief.

Aziraphale's nose was assaulted with the scent of high end eau de parfum, his person by an enthusiastic hug more appropriate of a rugby tackle, and his ears by the excited yell of "Bro Francis ! Long time no see !"

"Warlock my boy !" Aziraphale gasped, eyes watering from the cloud of Gucci enveloping him. "What are you-"

He was interrupted by further excited exclaiming, "It _is_ you ! Dayyum dude, I almost didn't recognize you. You went under the knife didn't cha ? I just know it !"

Warlock took a step back then and Aziraphale got his first good look at his erstwhile charge. Warlock the man wasn't much different from Warlock the boy outwardly- he still wore overpriced designer clothes and sported the latest haircut Hollywood stars were wearing. 

And yet, something tugged at Aziraphale's heart to be recognized and greeted so enthusiastically after all these years by his once vaguely bratty charge. Although on second thought, the fact that he'd been recognized at all was worrying; Brother Francis had looked very different from Aziraphale's regular appearance, he'd taken great pains to ensure that, the least of which was wearing those damned fake teeth. It wasn't very heart warming to think that Warlock thought he didn't look all that different from Brother Francis at all...

"-need to tell me who your doc was !" Warlock beamed at him.

Aziraphale laughed weakly. "Ah, no m'boy, merely healthy eating and lots of fresh air."

Warlock clapped him heartily on his shoulder, "That's what they all say old man," he guffawed as Aziraphale whispered _old man_ to himself in horror.

"Well whatever your secret is, it's workin' for you man. So how come you're here at the Four Seasons ?"

Aziraphale blinked rapidly. No harm in telling him atleast part of the truth, he supposed.

"A severely delayed flight to Armenia and general bad luck," he sighed as he bid Warlock to sit down.

Warlock's eyes eyes widened somewhat comically. "Armenia huh ? I'm headed there too ! Some boringass pledge-for-american-finacial-aid ceremony at some dusty old dig site." 

"Yeah I'm a regular Indiana Jones," he nodded jokingly in response to Aziraphale's flabbergasted expression.

"By golly, that's the exact place I was headed to as well! Unless you mean a site other than the Eden Edicts ?" he inquired, which Warlock shook his head no to.

"Well then I hope you suffer no delays of the sort or severity that I did," Aziraphale offered kindly, if still incredulous at the sheer coincidence.

Warlock snorted impressively. "Psh, I don't have to bother 'bout no delays, I've got dad's private jet parked at Heathrow and ready for wheels up at my say so."

"Oh," said Aziraphale. "When will you be leaving then, m'boy ?"

"As soon as I pay your tea bill," Warlock r murmured distractedly as he craned his neck trying to flag down one of the busy servers.

"Dear boy, you don't need to do that," Aziraphale told him, touched.

"Yeah no, we do need to pay your bill before we go, Four Seasons is one of the few places across the pond that actually has a decent Chicago deep-dish, wouldn't wanna get myself on their shit list," he replied now practically clambering up into the chair to call a server.

"Yes son, but what does _my_ tea bill have to do with _your_ potential ill-repute here for not paying ?" Aziraphale asked busy trying to tug him down off the chair.

"Because you're coming with me in my jet obviously," Warlock replied as he sat back down, having nearly given some poor server a heart attack.

And that was how Aziraphale found himself in the back of a limousine listening to Ke$ha (and, he supposed, to Warlock singing along tunelessly at the top of his lungs) en route to Heathrow.

This was also how he heard the second translation, and proceeded to nearly have an aneurysm.

_"And reporting back live from our crew at the dig site we have the next decrypted piece of text from the Eden Edicts! One of the experts on site tell us that this particular inscription happened to be arranged just before the first inscription about socks- funny how we never wondered about how those come to be really- and as such is being considered as the entry chronologically previous to the earlier one. The latest translation appears to render the writer even more mysterious. It raises even more questions, like who_ are _Hastur and Ligur and more important, who is this angel he/she talks about? Will we ever know? Many more questions like this will be asked and answered by our panel here at the studio, but first without further ado, we give you the second translation from the Eden Edicts! You heard it here first!_

_Today I found that wearing a triangular cloth secured at the hips and passing between the legs over the nethers under one's pants offers significant support. Works for both men and women, promotes equality via comfort of garments which is good, and therefore, bad._

_Also discovered that it's downright nasty when it gets twisted up and lodged in the crack of the buttocks. Delightfully diabolical. I'm going to call it the Wedgie._

_Convinced Ligur and Hastur that wearing underwear and sporting it Wedgie style is the height of hellish fashion. The tighter the better._

_Unrelated, angel mentioned he hates cold feet. I very nearly suggested how I could warm them up._ "

***

"I'm sure we'll find a McDonald's somewhere, that paragon of capitalism has outlets everywhere." Adam said absentmindedly as he watched the fields blur by.

They rounded a bend to the sight of the double golden arches.

A McDonald's stood in the middle of nowhere, a small parking lot behind it open to the rolling fields.

"Just to put it on record, I actually had nothing to do with the establishment of this company back when it first came up." Crowley muttered as they gave their orders to the lone employee at the counter.

"Son étrange mais je ne me souviens pas de travailler ici hier,"

(It's funny, but I don't remember working here yesterday,) he said a tad dazedly as he swiped Crowley's card.

Adam kept his eyes resolutely on his food.

The small radio in the corner was playing Mika and Anathema nodded along as they ate their Happy Meals, only for her to huff in annoyance when the music cut off since the currently multipurpose McDonalds employee had switched the station.

"You are English, no ? I'll put on ze BBC," he smiled helpfully at them.

" _-more interesting, since this clearly means that this is not just a random collection of various texts written by multiple people but infact has atleast one consistent writer, who must've truly been an interesting individual if not an important public figure, although we cannot comment upon their nationality or their very interesting sense of humour at this point."_

_"_ Ah, ze panel discussion for the second translation !" the employee beamed, turning the volume up.

" _Of course, they clearly had a lover of some sort, going by the mention of the person the writer refers to as 'angel' "_

There were titters from the other members of the panel.

" _Yeah not meantion all those ways the writer wants to warm up their cold feet!"_

The panel erupted into laughter and the radio into flames.

"We're leaving," Crowley snapped and stalked out of the tiny shop even as the poor hapless employee ran for the fire extinguisher.


End file.
